Like a mountain in a lotus land known
by witches and trolls she is a language of
Wild enough, but invisible like a ghost town
hidden by a veil of clouds.
A nightshade of her mind,
have passing the glorious sun.
A lonely soul that wander to the depth
of the lake and the Evil embraced her spirit.
She gave life to a butterfly in the cage of hell
her frozen black rose from an archangel
cracked inside her crystal shadow.
So much bloodshed.
So many deaths.
Been never a magical love story,
no happy ending, no magic spells or
She is just a craft on crumpled manuscript
thrown away by the Dead Prince of
You never could handle the Black pearl from
When my petals cry, they hit like bullets.